“I think you should. There are reasons why—why—Miss Brewster—”
“It isn’t a question that I can argue,” the other cut him off. “I can’t do it.” There was so much pain in his voice that Carroll forbore to press him. “But I’ll ask you to take a note.”
Carroll nodded, and his host, disappearing within the quinta, returned almost at once with an envelope on which the address was written in pencil. The Southerner took it and rose from the porch, where he had flung himself to rest.
“Perkins,” he said, with some effort, “I’ve thought and said some hard things about you.”
“Naturally enough,” murmured the other.
“Do you want me to apologize?”
The scientist stared. “Do you want me to thank you for to-night’s work?” he countered.
“No.”
“Well—”
“All right.”